


a hundred knives, but none which bear his name

by AlphaStarr



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Non-sexual usage of pointy things, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Strip Tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-08 21:28:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5513978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaStarr/pseuds/AlphaStarr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You know," Altariel yawns into his bare shoulder late one night. "It's kind of funny."<br/>"What is?" Zevran's fingers idly comb though his lover's hair, careful not to nick him with the pointed end of a false fingernail.<br/>"How you don't get undressed until <i>after</i> sex."</p><p>Or, the one where Zevran gives Surana a striptease, but weapons keep showing up in Places They Shouldn't Be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a hundred knives, but none which bear his name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [equiuszahhax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/equiuszahhax/gifts).



> This is 100% Milo's fault for successfully converting me into Dragon Age trash. I will probably literally never recover from this game. I hope you're happy. ;3
> 
> If anyone's interested, "Altariel" is pronounced "alt+ayr+ee+el", named after the star Altair in the constellation Aquila. Two other Warden characters exist parallel in this setting, Tirhanna Cousland (from an archaic name for the star Vega, "tyr+ah+nah") and Arihade Brosca (after the Deneb star in Cygnus, "ah+ri+ah+day"). The stars in question, Altair, Vega, and Deneb, make up the Summer Triangle, commonly used for naval navigation.
> 
> You can tell I've spent way too much time building backstory for a fanfic about Zevran stripping.

Zevran undid the last of the buckles on his clothes in the dim lighting of Surana's tent that night, slipping it off of his body with a practiced ease. Altariel, of course, still lying naked on their bedrolls (both of them, pushed together), using both of his hands to cover his desperately blushing face. His awestruck expression was a particular point of pride for the assassin-- he's had his fair share of lovers (more than his fair share, if he must be honest), but none that he's been able to coax into a postcoital bliss that borders on near-comatose.

Well, okay, so there was that _one_ mark in Antiva City, but Zevran wasn't counting it because that one was caused by a poisoned condom, and he's pretty sure the neurotoxin coating sent him into an _actual_ coma.

"Oh my _god_ ," Altariel exhaled, probably ten minutes late.

"Sadly, no, not a god," Zevran slid in beside him, and the soreness in his abs is totally worth it, if only for the flustered expression on the Warden's face.

"That, that was," he stuttered, trying to calm his furious blush.

"Yes," Zevran answered, his hand lifting to caress a too-warm cheek with the side of his thumb.  "It most certainly was."

"Maker's breath," Altariel finally sighed, turning on his side to face Zevran. "If you keep this up, I won't be able to walk anymore, you know?"

"Hmmm," he replied, brushing a wayward strand of long hair from the Warden's face. "I admit, keeping you in bed would have its inconveniences."

"Rather difficult to end a blight when your knees feel like goop," Altariel wore a wry grin, and Zevran didn't fail to notice that it carried a certain strain. He has himself used the same kind of dry half-jokes on more than one occasion, trying to maintain his charm in times of duress. Altariel, he thought, was either too inexperienced or too genuinely terrified to hide the desperation in his voice. Something about that twinge of fear made Zevran want to hold him.

He did. After all, he's never particularly been one to refrain from his desires.

"I can't do a round two, not tonight," the mage protested as a tanned hand slips over the crook of his waist. And while yes, it's true that Zevran's started round twos (and round threes, and fours...) this same way before, his intentions were as innocent as they ever get. Though he supposed that, if Altariel changed his mind later, he would be more than willing for everything up to perhaps a round six or seven. 

"If you are still capable of thinking about a round two at all, perhaps I did not do my job as thoroughly as I thought I had," he answered with a quiet chuckle. Then, with a kiss pressed to Altariel's temple, "But if you wish to rest, then it is far from me to ask otherwise of you."

"You're terrible," Altariel muffled a breathy laugh over Zevran's collarbone, then, nestling himself a bit closer. "But thank you."

"I try," Zevran replied, his hand trailing over the vertebrae of Altariel's back in long, soothing strokes. There was a pressure point here, he thought absently to himself, one that he normally punched to paralyze a foe from the waist down. But for Altariel, he rubbed his thumb over it instead, felt him slowly start to drift off.

"You know," Altariel yawned heavily, clearly well on his way to the ever-elusive commodity of sleep. "It's kind of funny."

"What is?" replied Zevran, his fingers catching on Altariel's long braid, the razor-edge side of a false fingernail slicing open the tie at the end. Well, crap, he thought, combing through the ends of his hair, careful not to nick his lover by mistake. That would be inconvenient come morning.

"How you don't get undressed until _after_ sex," he smiled, and then Zevran knew for certain that he was trying to temper the situation outside with his own kind of levity. Surana, he secretly thought, was a little bit terrible at it. Even more secretly, it was kind of endearing. "Is there some sort of Antivan sexual courtesy policy about it? If so, I must apologize for my rudeness."

"Not exactly Antivan," Zevran answered thoughtfully. "Though I suppose you could say that it does have something to do with the Crows."

"Oh?" queried Altariel, his curiosity clearly piqued.

"Let's just say that I don't make it a habit of letting people undress me," the corners of Zevran's mouth twitched upwards. "Particularly people that I'd like to keep alive."

"Ah," Altariel yawned again, and Zevran became a little bit worried that he hadn't yet noticed that his braid had come undone, particularly because there was something sharp at his back. "Worried that the glory of your naked body would destroy my mind, then?"

Or perhaps he was just that trusting, not worried at all about the trained assassin who jerked him to completion with his right hand only because his left has three false nails that, with the proper poisons, could spell his death any night of Zevran's choosing. Which, he supposed, if he had to be honest about it, was actually none of the nights at all. But it was the prospect that counted.

"I suppose," Zevran chuckled regretfully. "In that respect, I am paranoid enough for the both of us."

"Don't worry about it so much," Altariel pressed their lips together in a sleepy, slow kiss. "You're a little bit extremely endearing sometimes, you know?"

"Oh, trust me, I know," Zevran murmured back, and when Altariel Faded into his dreams halfway through a second soft kiss, he kept his watch until Alistair (hiding his virgin eyes with gauntleted hands) stuck his head into the tent flap to let him know that it was their turn for camp patrol.

Zevran let Altariel sleep, and took the patrol by himself.

* * *

The next time they had a moment to themselves was nearly a month later-- there was little time for respite in the forests, especially when entire werewolf clans were on the loose. Briefly, they'd had a rendezvous with the others near the north road to Denerim, but the pause was only just long enough for the Wardens to discuss strategy, re-divide themselves into mission-based parties, and depart again. And if Altariel had thought that having sex was difficult with just Alistair around, it was nigh impossible with Wynne's I-can't-believe-you-let-an-assassin-into-camp-on- _purpose_ -and-I-wholly-disapprove glances and Sten's general distaste for anything less than completely serious.

But then, for one blessed evening, when they'd managed to meet with the others again, there was Arihade. And wherever there was Arihade, there were beverages that had been mysteriously spiked with potent spirits. Possibly, in fact, spirits that had been made from the remains of actual Ortan Thaig ghosts-- she had been incredibly vague about the exact method through which they'd been acquired.

Altariel could have kissed her, even in spite of her being a woman, because it meant that almost everyone was trying to prevent "Her Ladyship, the Past and Future Teryn of Highever" Tirhanna Cousland from streaking through the woods like a drunken fey and declaring that she would reclaim her birthright by riding into Denerim whilst naked atop a halla... just as soon as she caught one of the damn things.

And, thought Altariel with a jolt of heat, also because, for reasons unbeknownst to any but the Maker himself, Zevran's suaveness increased drastically after a drink or two. It was, perhaps, the third time his hand brushed flirtatiously against Altariel's hip that really did him in.

"Zev, please," Altariel squirmed, rather relieved that he did not wear pants beneath his robes.

Zevran chuckled his reply, "What is it, mi amor, did you wish for me to loan you another flask? You know I cannot guarantee that the poison is always completely cleaned out."

Altariel looked down at his mortar, where he'd been attempting to powder the elfroot required for his next potioneering project. He doubted would get anywhere close to finished that night, and so dumped the whole thing, pestle and all, into a leather pouch.

"You know very well that it's nigh impossible to get anything done when you're distracting me like that," he tisked.

"This? No, my Ariel, this is _scarcely_ a distraction," Zevran purred, slipping his fingers through a subtle gap in his belted clasps, thumbing the mage's hipbone through the thin fabric underneath. "Though if you wish, I could turn it into an entire diversion. I am quite good at that, or so I have been told."

"Mmmm," Altariel felt his shoulders jolt in an excited shiver as Zevran's thumb rubbed a line down the crease where hip met thigh. "I could... manage a diversion or two."

Zevran's choice of a reply was a low, pleased chuckle that Altariel could practically taste as their lips pressed together. Or maybe that was Zev's slightly-less-than-secret stash of Antivan Brandy, he mused, even as the assassin's tongue traced his lower lip.

Altariel gently tilted his head into the kiss, parting his mouth, slipping his hand just under the flaps of an armored skirt to run his fingers against the skintight leather there.

"Mmm," Zevran hummed, separating their mouths to speak. "You, _mi amor_ , are approaching very dangerous territory."

"And so I am," Altariel agreed, feeling as if his fingertips were on fire as a muscled thigh flexed against them. "What course of action do you recommend I take?"

"My input? Well," here Zevran gave another breathy chuckle. "I would suggest you allow me to remove the hazards for you."

"You mean... your own clothing?" Altariel cocked his head to the side quizzically, his fingers slowing their strokes. Suddenly remembering, "This... wouldn't have anything to do with what I said the last time, would it?"

"Ah, I suppose you may have planted a thought or two in my mind," Zevran's lips quirked into a smirk. "I was thinking only that it would be unfair of me to continue depriving you of the sight of my entire body. Especially after I've enjoyed yours. Several times."

His gaze very obviously trailed over Altariel's still-clothed form, undressing him with his eyes as if he could, through only the power of desire, divest him of that ridiculous feathered robe. The mage bit his lip, shifting his hips in discomfort, and wondered if perhaps he should undo his belt, his ties.

"Well... I suppose, if you truly want to," Altariel fidgeted, toying with the strings of his collar. "I wouldn't be entirely averse to the idea."

"Excellent," Zevran replied, taking Altariel's earlobe between his teeth for a moment before leaving his side altogether.

Altariel's side felt so cold without Zevran attached to it that he seriously contemplated just getting up and following. But, he reminded himself, this might be his only chance to see his lover naked(!), and the thought induced equal parts curiosity and arousal.

He started with the boots, sliding a hand over his thigh, his knee, his muscled calf, propped up on an abandoned stool. That hand paused at his ankle, coming back up to the top of the boot, slipping in the side and pushing it down his leg, revealing a golden calf inch-by-inch. He seemed to trace the trailing tattoo marks as he pushed the leather over his ankle, at last pulling the boot over his foot, and dropping it onto the floor of Surana's tent.

Altariel, watching from less than five feet away, had never wanted to lick anything as much as he wanted to lick Zevran's bare calf in that moment. Saliva pooled in his mouth at the mere thought.

Zevran set his foot on the ground once more, lifting the other calf so that his heel rested on the stool this time. The other boot, Altariel noticed, was somehow more worn than the first one, as if they didn't belong to the same set. It was peculiar, but he decided not to question it as Zevran's fingers began deftly undoing the laces on the inner calf, the gaps in the thin strings giving Altariel a tantalizing preview of muscled flesh before dexterous fingers peeled away the leather that followed.

He thought that, perhaps, Zevran was going to remove this boot in the same manner he had the last, by slipping it over his ankle. But then he turned his heel to the other side, withdrew the dagger that had been strapped there, and sliced it up the front. Three minuscule bottles of poison fell from the chamber above his foot, and he carefully caught them before they fell against the floor.

"Maker's breath, have you been wearing those--" Altariel inhaled sharply, not entirely sure why he was so turned on.

"Yes," answered Zevran, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. "I like to be prepared, in case we are captured."

Altariel sucked in another breath. Keeping a spare blade up your sleeve was one thing, but hiding poison in your boot for nearly a month was another thing completely.

Zevran carelessly tossed the dagger to the floor, just as he had his boots, and Altariel wondered if it would be weird if he asked to lick the knife, too. Zevran probably wouldn't let him, he reminded himself, if only because it had probably been previously poisoned. But Maker forgive him, it was just so damn _hot_.

His eyes devoured the way Zevran's hands pressed against his hips on the way up as he slid his hands beneath his leather cuirass, undoing the tiny ties on the inside. They then flicked to the outside of his armor, his nails softly clinking against the belted clasps at his waist, his sides. The cuirass fell open like a book, two daggers and a throwing knife strapped to the inside of the front, the shaft of an unstrung shortbow and exactly four Elven arrows tied into the back. Zevran pulled it from his person, dropped it atop his boots as if the weaponry hadn't been there at all. Maybe that was normal for assassins, Altariel thought with a shudder that seemed to leach towards his groin. Maybe he'd killed marks like this, lain with them and then torn their throats open in the afterglow with a concealed dagger or two.

Altariel was almost achingly hard as Zevran undid his shoulder guards, fingers trailing against his firm biceps, the lines of his deltoids, before arriving at the buckles. He undid them with only a flick of his wrists, flinging them off of his shoulders with a smirk, divesting himself of the leather in less than a second.

"You," he groaned, unable to restrict himself to just fidgeting with his collar ties any longer. He began to untie his robe, just past the collarbone, just enough that he felt like he could cool off a bit, "You are a horrible, incorrigible _showoff_."

"How cruel you are, mi amor," Zevran tisked playfully, dropping his spaulders to the ground. The clinking of glass as they hit the floor told Altariel that there were at least two bottles of poison bound to the insides, maybe more. "Speaking so accusingly when I do this with your enjoyment in mind."

Altariel released his breath in a hiss, adjusting himself in his smallclothes, "I think I may be at risk of enjoying it a little too much."

Zevran replied with a laugh, sliding a hand beneath his undertunic, past his firm abs, rubbing his fingers over the tattoos that crossed his broad chest before tossing the shirt easily over his head. Despite its soft, fabric material, it clanked suspiciously as it landed in the pile of Zevran's clothing, sending lockpicks scattering across the floor. The heel of his palm ran seductively down the center of his bare chest, down the part of his abs, where fine blond hairs began to coalesce near his groin, his other hand coming to his hip so he could remove the guardskirt, each strip of leather concealing thin, barely-glinting razors. Beneath lay the heavy bulge of Zevran's erection, barely contained by skintight breeches, and something about that sent a rivulet of pleasure down Altariel's spine, one that pooled in the crack of his arse, made him fidget on his seat.

The mage bit the tip of his index finger as he watched Zevran unhitch the metal belt from his waist, not certain he could trust himself to avoid accidentally blasting off Zev's pants through sheer power of desire alone. It fell out as he groaned, realizing that the belt was actually a blade within itself, unbending with a sharp _sching!_ that could have taken off someone's hand if they'd been too close.

Then, the laces went, Zevran's cock pushing against them even as they slowly loosened, and Altariel would have done anything Zevran asked of him if only he would be allowed to get on his knees in front of that cock, press his tongue against it. The slide of Zevran's thumbs against his own sharp hipbones, trailing intimately down his muscled thighs to gather those pants at his knees, all of it made Altariel's bones tremble and he was grateful that he happened to be sitting.

But then, he let the pants fall to the ground, and an armory's worth of knives, daggers, needles, and poisons clattered out of Maker-knows-where, making a clanking cacophony. Zevran looked almost embarrassed by the sheer noise, "And after I went through the difficulty of trying to undress quietly this time."

It should have scared him. Actually, if he was being completely honest, it kind of  _did_ scare him. Realizing that Zevran could have killed him (could possibly have killed them all, given the amount of poison he held) at any time in their acquaintance...  it was difficult for Altariel to wrap his mind around. But knowing that he had purposefully made the choice to use his extensive set of weaponry, his skills in the art of death, in order to _protect_ Altariel instead... _that_ feeling found its way to his groin, and was making itself very urgently known.

"My _god_ , Zev," he begged, suddenly taking to his feet, fingers fumbling to undo the ties of his robe. "Fuck me, Zev, _please_."

"Ariel," Zevran chuckled, deft fingers easily taking care of the knots where Altariel's could not. " _Mi amor_ \--"

Altariel interrupted whatever else he might have had to say, kissing him deeply, "Zev, god."

"Mmmm," Zevran groaned, more than pleased to part his lips as the mage coaxed a deeper kiss from him. He undid the last of Altariel's ties, slipping his hands beneath the robe and grabbing a handful of pliable buttock. "Still not a god."

"Close enough," Altariel answered, parting from the kiss to rub his flushed cheek against Zevran's. He dropped the robe from his shoulders, slid both his arms to tangle hands in Zevran's hair.

Zevran managed to manhandle him onto the bedroll, carefully making sure they didn't step on any of the daggers scattered across the floor on the way there. Altariel practically fell to the weighty furs, pulling Zevran down with him, wrapping his legs around narrow hips enticingly, ankles crossed just over a firm rear.

"You know I can't get to the oil if you keep me trapped like this, yes?" Zevran asked, the echo of a twinkle in his eye.

"Wait. I can just," Altariel waved his hands around vaguely, and his lyrium-ink tattoos began to glow faintly.

Zevran was a man who had many, many conquests, some of whom had been mages. That being said, however, the extent of his experience with magic in bed had been (in a word) disastrous. In multiple words, it had usually resulted in his dick getting frozen or electrocuted, or occasionally involved in a demon-summoning fertility ritual. With alarm tinging his voice, "You do not need to--"

"Grease?" Altariel raised a hand, now distinctly oiled, head cocked to the side. "Though, I suppose, if you really oppose it I could banish it back..."

"No," Zevran exhaled in relief. "But warn a man before you do that."

"I apologize," Altariel gently nosed the edge of Zevran's jaw. "I won't do it again, if it upsets you."

"Perhaps less... 'upsets.' More like... 'startles,'" Zevran turned his head to press a series of kisses to Altariel's face. "Though I must commend you for your... creativity."

"It does make things rather convenient," Altariel agreed, slipping his hand between them to stroke Zevran's erection back to fullness. The oil was still warm with his magic, thick but not quite like a gelatin and softer than the lyrium that summoned it.

"Mmmmn," Zevran growled, hips twitching with every stroke. He lifted a hand from the bedroll, pushing all of his weight onto the opposite side, and began to reciprocate, rubbing circles into Altariel's hipbone, his thigh, ripping open his smallclothes before taking his cock in hand and fondling the shaft. "You wouldn't happen to have any more of that, would you?"

"Other hand," Altariel snagged his fingers with the hand that wasn't already occupied. "That's about all I can do, besides a three-foot radius area attack."

Zevran's fingers milked the oil off of Altariel's as he grunted, "I almost forget that you have your entire armory, even when completely undressed. You, _mi amor_ , are possibly better armed than I am at this moment."

"Just possibly?" Altariel huffed out a laugh, not entirely certain if the sudden spike of arousal at the thought of _Zevran's **still** armed_ was normal or not.

"I still have my arsenal of sexual poetry," was his smirking reply, even as he fondled Altariel's sac, trailed his fingers down behind it, began to stroke over his entrance. "And most of it is fatally bad. Besides which, a couple of things it would be painful to remove without a surgeon."

Altariel bit his lip, arching his hips into slick fingers. How much was "a couple of things," he wondered, and how would Zevran use them if they were to be attacked right now? He swallowed the saliva pooling in his mouth, "Because clearly the poetry's the most dangerous."

"No," Zevran grinned lustily, relishing in Altariel's high-pitched keen as he penetrated him with a single finger. "The pleasure is."

"Zev," Altariel moaned, clenching around the digit. It filled him, but not enough-- only enough to make him want more, his thirst barely whetted. His fingers grasped at Zevran's cock, pleading with needy strokes. 

"Mmmm," Zevran breathed, licking a stripe up the side of Altariel's neck, the soft dip where a delicate windpipe met the firmness of a sternal muscle. He pressed his finger in more deeply, withdrawing momentarily before working him loose with steady, careful pumps, pulling a soft squeak from Altariel's throat as he pushed a second finger in, stretching and seeking.

Altariel shuddered, walls quivering and grip tightening, "Zev, please."

"Please?" Zevran wiggled his eyebrows. "Well, I certainly know how, but I'm afraid you'll have to be a little more specific."

"Zev," Altariel's groan was almost equal parts arousal and pun-related frustration. "Please, anything you want, just _fuck_ me."

There was something particularly hot about Altariel when he was pleading to be taken, thought Zevran. Perhaps it was in his background, how he'd been raised completely naive of sexuality in a Chantry-run tower, how very shy he'd been as an assassin taught him how to enjoy his body, and now he was lying beneath Zevran and begging for it. But in any case, it was far from him to deny his lover, not now, when he was making that face like he was about to cry. And so Zevran replied, "As you wish."

With a great deal of reluctance, Zevran withdrew his cock from Altariel's delicate fingers, sucking in his breath with a hiss as he nudged himself over a slightly-twitching entrance. He held the air in his lungs, and Altariel exhaled for the both of them, then, releasing his tension in a way that made the slow, shallow stab of Zevran's tip almost easy, a soft grunt on Altariel's end and a low sigh on Zevran's.

"Okay?" Zevran breathed, hips inching forward so slowly that he was almost at an unbearable standstill.

"Yes," Altariel pulled him down by the neck to kiss him fervently. " _Absolutely_ yes."

"Mmmn," answered Zevran, drawing back slowly-- like nocking an arrow to the bowstring-- before pushing forward more firmly with a swing of his hips.

Altariel groaned, feeling Zevran's thighs tense with the action, watching his abdomen faintly ripple beneath the effort of the thrust, fucking him in a way that had Altariel chasing him with his own hips when Zevran attempted to pull back once more. It was, to say the least, an awkward rhythm-- until Zevran's free hand found purchase where Altariel's hip met thigh, guiding him into the motion of every thick rut.

"Oh, yes!" Altariel bit his lip, words seething through the grasp of his teeth. Zevran's grip taught each of his undulations just _when_ to move to make everything somehow better, the assassin's own hips riveting into him with a sort of practiced savagery not unlike the way he killed.

It was that thought which drove Altariel's fingers to his own straining cock, the carnal pleasure Zevran took in killing and sex alike, and the fleeting curiosity of _would he have made this same face if he'd succeeded in killing Altariel when they met_ , before he spilled out over his fingers, first in spurts and then in dribbles, his anal passage pulsating in violent clenches even as Zevran's hips stuttered in his own groaning completion.

By the time Zevran was pulling out, the only indication of which was a faint twinge of soreness in Altariel's arse, every limb in the mage's body had fallen limp against the sheets, his eyes open as wide as they would go, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. Zevran, not unaffected himself, rolled onto his right side, the one that hadn't been holding him up the whole time. His left arm was stiff, bordering on numb, and he absently flexed his fingers to regain feeling in his hand, the bones in his wrist cracking as he unbent the joint. His razor-edged nails had torn three pinpricks into the furs of the bedroll, and as he let his trembling thighs fall to stillness, he wondered if Altariel would notice.

"That," Altariel breathed at last, curling into Zevran's side. "Was incredibly awesome."

"We," corrected Zevran, even as he pressed his lips to Altariel's forehead. "Are incredibly awesome."

"Maker's breath, Zev," Altariel groaned, starting to feel the evidence of Zevran's release leak out of him. "Just... do you mind answering a question I have?"

"Ask away," Zevran chuckled, the gusts of his laughter tangling in Altariel's hair.

"Do all assassins usually wear... well, all of _that_?" Altariel's eyes flickered towards Zevran's skintight armory.

"I wouldn't know. Usually, when I meet other assassins, they are wearing _nothing_ within an hour or so," Zevran wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "But I was, as a child, encouraged to keep separate weapons for all of my marks. In addition to, of course, the concealed spares. It makes disposing of the evidence much quicker. Cleaner."

"..." Altariel paused, pursed his lips. Then, he grinned, "Which one was supposed to be mine?"

"Yours, _mi amor_?" Zevran's eyes took on a harder, darker tone. "It... _was_ a dagger, made by the finest smithy in Antiva City, with a well for poison. The Crows provided me with a significant amount of Magebane for it. For you."

"I... Zevran?" Altariel drew back, not certain if he should have expected the answer. There was something profoundly sad in his face, then, and Altariel tentatively reached out to touch his wrist. "Sorry... I shouldn't have joked about that."

"Yes, well. It is of no more concern," and the haunted note in Zevran's eyes, to Altariel's relief, began to fade once more into the echo of a twinkle. "Since the weapon in question found itself in the breast of a hurlock less than a week later. Where it is now, I have no more an idea than you."

Altariel fell to silence again for a moment before he pressed his lips to Zevran's temple, his nose, his lips in succession. His fingers gently stroked over Zevran's wrist, "Perhaps you should have kept it. I can think of many worse fates than being allowed to die by a hand this beautiful."

"But I, _mi amor_ , cannot think of a fate worse than being the hand that ends a man this beautiful," answered Zevran, drawing him closer, a twinge of fear shaking his voice. Then, a deep breath-- and with an amused smirk, "I _did_ keep Alistair's, however. To amuse my thoughts whenever he is _particularly_ obnoxious."

"And you've refrained from stabbing him all this time?" Surana laughed, the shaking of his chest tickling Zevran's bare skin. "Your self control is impressive."

Zevran smiled, then, and Altariel swore that he had never felt safer, more at home. Even in the Tower was there the underlying threat of waking up one morning to find that the Templars had killed all of your neighbors because they might be Blood Mages, or that you were going to be Tranquilized by the same people who'd taught you the alphabet as a child. But here in the curve of an assassin's quirked lips did he find his threshold, here in the muscles honed to kill did he find his walls, here in entwined legs and held hands did he find his hearth. 

Because Zevran carried, hidden in his clothing, somewhere close to a hundred knives-- none of which had Altariel Surana's name on it.

* * *

That night, they lay awake together in hours dominated by soft kisses and hoarse laughs and breathy whispers, at least until a still-drunken Tirhanna Cousland popped her head in and started shouting about Elven-Halla empathetic links, and would one of them please stop her new friend Mr. Murderantlers from eating all of Leliana's hats? Altariel couldn't even bring himself to be upset about getting up out of bed, then, because his home never left his side.

...and anyways, you didn't get a chance to run naked through camp to catch a runaway halla every evening.

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: It may be important to know that Zevran's Infinite Rogue Clothes are canon. Sort of.  
> [ I almost forgot about the "Antivan Tailoring" perk.](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Inquisition_perks#Inquisition)


End file.
